


Wassail

by HippolytaGale



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Friendship, Gen, Slice of Life, This might get spicier if I do a second section
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 18:15:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10724595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HippolytaGale/pseuds/HippolytaGale
Summary: Definition: to drink plentiful amounts of alcohol and enjoy oneself with others in a noisy, lively way.Young Pike Trickfoot and her adopted brother Grog have their first shared birthday together: games of chance, drinking, and a bit of a heart-to-heart are in store. Something light and fluffy for your day.





	Wassail

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I've spent the last few months absorbing bucketloads of Critical Role, and I kept thinking about Grog and Pike's beautiful friendship. I just had to write about it! I may add a more...complicated or mature take on this in another section, but for now, enjoy a quick (and hopefully cute) slice-of-life for these two. Cheers!

That morning, the daybreak’s light was cool and gray. Pike opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, relaxing under the swirl of wind coming through her cracked window and breathing the lingering traces of lilac from the bushes outside their house. She also caught a trace of the bread baking in the kitchen; Papa Wilhand was still making breakfast, so it was early. She rolled over onto her side, pushed away the blonde locks that fell across her face, and looked over to her adopted brother.

Grog slept in the other bed, his massive arms and legs outstretched in an X, his taut stomach swelling like a balloon to be expelled in snores through his slack lips. His quilt was tangled about his waist, useless, though Pike doubted he really felt the chill. A smile crept across her face. She pulled aside her blanket and touched her feet to the cold stone floor, taking great pains to be silent; Grog was a sound sleeper, but she wanted to surprise him. With effort, she pulled herself weightlessly onto his large bed, knelt on his chest, and patted his smooth cheek.  


“Grog,” She whispered. “Wake up.”  


He snorted, his gaping mouth closing off a snore at last. His brows knit together, and Pike drummed her fingers gently on his forehead.  


“Wake up, Grog Strongjaw,” She hummed, teasing. He clasped her wrist with his thumb and two fingers.  


“Pike—” He groaned. “It’s early.”  


“Yes, but do you remember what day it is?”  


His eyes snapped open, and he jerked into alertness. Both massive hands clamped around her waist, and as he sat up in bed he lifted her into the air, grinning.  


“It’s your birthday!” He cried, and pulled her in close for a squeeze.  


She loved his hugs—she felt like the little teddy bear her great-great-grandfather had given her when she was young, and she hoped she could give Grog that much pleasure. After a moment she squirmed a bit against him, pulling away just enough to tug playfully at his ears.  


“It’s your birthday too, silly! And we get to do whatever we want the entire day.”  


That wasn’t exactly true. Wilhand had asked her to clean the rectory, and she was sure he would ask Grog to go to the butcher to fetch meat for tonight, but beyond that they would be free to do as they wished. She had plans for them today, little adventures and simple pleasures. Grog finally released her from his hug, and she flopped down on the other side of his bed, smoothing her nightgown with a hand.  


“Do you want some breakfast?” She asked, and raced to catch up to him as he bolted to the kitchen. “Grog, wait! Put on some clothes first!”

Later that morning, their little chores done, Grog and Pike left Wilhand to his duties and crept away from the house. They dared to run the gauntlet of Speaker’s Corner, which was a place Wilhand would never let them explore on most days. It was a square in the merchant district of Westruun that featured all kinds of general foolery: jugglers and card games, scruffy bards and dice, and it contained about every pleasure they longed for but rarely had the chance to indulge.  


Pike touched the stuffed purse at her hip. She had saved many copper and silver pieces in anticipation of this day; it was their first birthday together, and she wanted it to be special. She worried that they might be turned away because of their youth, but as they walked up to a dice-thrower and placed a bet, the man looked at Grog and nodded, taking his copper piece and tossing the dice into a cup. Pike waited, her own coin extended, but the man ignored her.  


“Bets in,” the man called. “Call!”  


“Odd.” Grog said.  


Another man called even. The thrower shook the cup, slammed it to the table, and lifted it. The dice showed three pips. The thrower took two coppers from his purse, and passed them over; once again, Pike offered a bet, and when he failed to notice her she had Grog lift her onto his shoulder to be sure the man could see her, but then the dealer simply shook his head.  


“I’m sorry, small one. The game is not for you. Come back in a few years.” Grog chuckled.  


“It’s not fair,” Pike whispered into his ear. “You’re younger than I am!”  


Or at least she thought he was; goliaths didn’t keep track of birthdays—that was the reason she made sure Grog shared hers, after all. And neither of them were really that young; she was seventeen, and though most people misjudged gnomes’ ages because of their small stature, she was practically an adult. Wilhand may not have thought so, but she totally was. The only reason anyone thought Grog was older was because of his size. It wasn’t fair. She sighed. He grinned, and took the coin from her palm.  


“What do you want me to call?” He asked. Even when he whispered, his voice was a low rumble that vibrated her cheekbone. She thought hard as she watched the man shifted the dice in his fingers, expertly tossing and revealing them to another customer as the two of them spoke.  


“Even!” She said.  


“Oi, can we do double or nothing?” Grog asked the dice-thrower.  


“Aye, if that’s your pleasure.”  


“Go on, mate,” he said, and laid three coppers down. “Do your worst.”  


They won and lost a handful of coins over the next few minutes, walking away with a silver piece they hadn’t had before. “You’re damn lucky,” Grog said.  


“Like a rabbit’s foot,” she replied, and tossed the coin to a nearby bard in exchange for a few songs and rhymes.  


The card games went far worse (Grog’s poker face was terrible), but they enjoyed whittling away the hours despite their loss of money, and the two of them stuffed their faces with meat pies, fruit, and a rare piece of chocolate they split between themselves. Bloated and sleepy, they walked over a few streets to one of the public walks running along the river. They laid down in the grass, staring up at the blue sky, finding little animals cavorting in the clouds before the leaden mace of sleep caused them both to drift off for an hour or two.  


She dreamed of Sarenrae, as she often did—the images had been coming to her since she was a little girl, the light behind her eyes warm and feathered devas and angels filling up azure skies, swirling around her mind’s eye so it felt like she was flying with them, diving and swooping down to the earth, falling faster than any stone—and at some point the dream faded into the mundane. This dream had a younger Wilhand dancing a jig, and then sometime later another dream took its place with a jolt, and then the images dissolved into random jumbles until Pike awoke with Grog’s arm around her, her face tucked into his warm chest.  


“What time is it?” She murmured.  


“Dunno. Late afternoon. Fancy a drink?”  


“Absolutely,” She said, and when they stood, he picked her up and let her ride on his shoulders.  


The Smiling Griffon was several large blocks away, but Pike didn’t mind the distance sitting atop her friend’s massive frame. He was so tall, and although she had ridden on him before, she was never used to looking down at people as they passed. When they entered the pub, he offered an arm and she swung down to the ground, straightening her clothes after she landed. Pike claimed a table in the corner, and gave Grog a fistful of coins for the barkeep.  


“Right, keep ‘em coming then!” Grog roared in glee, and returned from the counter with four mugs of frothing ale.  


“One in each hand?” She asked.  


“Or three for me, one for you, whichever.”  


She preferred the first option. Wilhand hadn’t let her drink for the first fifteen years of her life, and she still felt like she was making up for lost time. It was less special for Grog, since the Herd consumed beer (and especially spirits) whenever they could plunder them—when they slipped away from her great-great-grandfather’s watchful eye last year, Grog drank a third of a pony keg by himself, hiccuping and tumbling around long after she fell asleep, queasy with too many sweets and stolen sips of his drink. He had paid for his overindulgence the next day though; she spent the whole morning swabbing his brow with a damp cloth as he whimpered, and she comforted him as best she could. At some point she finally took pity and begged Wilhand to help with Grog’s hangover. It was worth the lecture, but she really didn’t want a repeat performance.  


“Pike, look! No hands!”  


Grog’s mouth chomped down on the rim of the wooden mug as he tipped it, ale streaming through his teeth. His throat bobbed as he took a deep draft, little rivulets of beer streaming down his chin, and he put his arms out, giving her a thumbs-up with both hands. She reached forward and bumped his knuckles with her own, then put both of her mugs to her mouth and tipped her head back; considerably more beer splashed against her cheeks, but little of it went to waste. The effect was, within minutes, fuzzy tipsiness and general delight.  


“Another!” She shouted, and rushed to the counter for more.  


After the sixth drink or so she challenged a dwarf at another table to arm wrestling, which she lost with great relish, and then Grog grabbed a handful of darts and they began to play. Between sips she noticed his darts were all broken at the tips; he threw them so hard they stuck into the cork board sometimes anyway. Bystanders ducked as the darts went wild or bounced off the wall—were they always so bad at games, she wondered? Or were they just that drunk? Grog flicked one projectile from the fins held between his fingers, where it firmly pinned a wayward customer’s hat-feather to the wall; the woman kept walking, unaware how close she had been to being pricked in the neck. Grog held back a snort. Drunk, Pike thought, and giggled. Definitely drunk.  


The alcohol blurred time, and made Grog thoughtful in between all the silliness. As dusk crept into night, they began stumbling home for supper, and he was quiet most of the walk home. He must’ve been thinking; it was always quieter when he was thinking hard.  


“Pike?” He finally asked.  


“Yes?”  


“Do you think about what you’re going to do after you’re ordained?” She shrugged.  


“Serve at the temple for awhile, I suppose? I’m sure Wilhand wouldn’t mind taking a service off once in a while.”  


“No, I don’t mean, like, in the next couple of months. I mean like...well, later.”  


She stopped and looked up at him. The brilliant moon overhead threw most of his profile into shadow from this angle.  


“What do you mean, Grog?” She asked, even though she already knew what he would say. His hands slowly clenched and unclenched. He started again.  


“I mean, don’t you want to—you know—get out there? See the world? Get into a few scrapes?” She touched his wrist.  


“Of course I would. There’s so much to see! And there’s nothing more I’d rather do than go on an adventure with my best buddy.” He smiled there, even in the dimness she could see that. “...But you know, it’s not really up to me.”  


His little smile vanished and he sighed, deep and heavy. The name hung unspoken between them: Sarenrae. He kicked a stone. It clicked down the street, vanishing into the shadows. They began to walk again.  


“Grog, you know She would never ask me to stay somewhere if she thought that I would be truly unhappy.”  


“Yeah,” He nodded, close-lipped. “Yeah, I know.” Silence set in again for a few moments, and then he said, “You know what I’m going to buy with the money from my first job?”  


“Ale?” She guessed.  


“A shit-load of ale!” He chuckled, and leaned over to gently lift her and place her back on his shoulders, her chin resting on his smooth scalp. “I’ll visit,” He continued. “I’ll join up with a crew and take a few knocks, and when I have a few stories to tell I’ll come back for a drink.”  


She squeezed both arms around his broad head as tight as she could.  


“I would like that.” She said, and with that, they wandered back home.


End file.
